Three years of long distance with my boyfriend, and every time we met up for a meal,
he'd instinctively arrange the plates just right and find the perfect angle for a photo.
When we went out shopping, he'd snap pictures of the streets, the storefronts, the scenery. But I was never in a single frame.
I teased him once.
“Chester Henson, who are you so eager to send all those pictures to?”
His throat bobbed before he laughed it off：
“Don't overthink it. I'm just documenting my life.”
I believed him. And because I wanted to be part of his life, wanted just one more chance to see him,
I worked overtime for a solid month, finally scraped together enough days off, and flew across the country to surprise him.
Only to stumble on him strolling through town with another girl.
Chester was carrying her shopping bags like a gentleman, every last one of them, his smile wide and easy.
I thought of the times I'd asked him to hold mine. He'd always brush me off with that flat tone.
“Izzy, women these days are supposed to be independent. Carry your own bags.”
He'd waited in line for an hour with this girl to get into some trendy restaurant.
He mixed her dipping sauce himself and set her chopsticks out for her.
And this time, his phone stayed perfectly still in his pocket the entire meal. He never took it out once.
So that was it. All that "documenting his life" had just been taking photos to send to her.
Something inside me went quiet. All of it, every bit of trying, suddenly felt pointless.
This love. I didn't want it anymore.
……
After the girl left, Chester finally noticed me standing off to the side.
The moment he saw me, he froze. A flicker of guilt crossed his face.
“Izzy, what are you doing here? You should've told me you were coming.”
I pushed my suitcase toward him. “I was trying to surprise you.”
He didn't take it. Instead he grabbed my hand.
“Next time give me a heads-up. I'll call you an Uber.”
I murmured back, “Okay.”
When Chester had said goodbye to that girl just minutes ago, he'd offered to drive her home himself.
But for me, it was "I'll call you an Uber."
Then again, he'd probably never cared about me to begin with.
Chester could never remember my cycle.
Last time I visited, I was curled up on the couch with cramps so bad I couldn't eat a thing.
He'd walked through the door and said：“There's a new restaurant down the street. Let's go check it out.”
When I told him I had cramps and asked him to pick up some warm ginger tea, all he gave me was:
“Why do you always feel sick at the worst time?”
Yet just now, he'd known that girl's cycle down to the day, reminding her she shouldn't have anything iced.
In the car, I watched the trees slide backward past the window. Neither of us spoke.
I'd flown three thousand miles to see him, and he couldn't manage half a sentence of concern.
The text I'd sent last night：【I have a surprise for you tomorrow.】
All it got back was：【Oh.】
My chest ached. I opened my phone in silence.
The photos of the cloud layers I'd taken from the plane window,
the ones I'd been saving to share with him, I selected all and deleted every one.
The car finally stopped at a red light, and I made myself ask the first real question of the night：
“Chester, do you even love me at all?”
Silence. A long silence. No answer came.
I looked up to find him typing away on his phone, completely absorbed.
A bitter laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
Even when we were alone together, he couldn't spare me a scrap of his attention.
He glanced up a beat too late, voice absent. ：“Sorry, what'd you say?”
I shook my head. ：“Nothing. Keep your eyes on the road.”
At the hotel, I set the homemade cookies I'd brought him on the table.
He'd mentioned once, offhand, that they were good. I'd remembered it for months, tracked them down specially.
He didn't even glance at them. He just picked up his phone, snapped a photo of the packaging,
shoved the bag aside, and fired off a message.
It finally clicked. He'd never liked those cookies.
She did. And because she liked them, so did he.
He disappeared into the shower. On the nightstand, his phone screen lit up.
I told myself not to look. I looked anyway.
Her name was Lily Dotson. A new hire in his department.
Their chat history was endless, dense, tender in a way that made my throat close.
They looked far more like a couple in love than we ever had.
With Lily, Chester was a completely different person. He couldn't stop talking.
He could spend hours with her going from topic to topic, culture to geography,
one tangent spiraling into the next, from late at night straight through to dawn.
He'd order her a boba tea at the same time every day. He'd send her movie recommendations every week without being asked.
He'd stay on the phone with her for three, four hours, even falling asleep on the line with her.
Then I opened my own phone. Our chat history,
nothing but the same plain dinner photo, day after day, without a single word attached.
I'd once sent him the exact same dinner photo every night for a week straight.
He never noticed.
So Chester wasn't incapable of tenderness.
He wasn't someone who didn't know how to love, wasn't cold by nature.
All that warmth, all that patience, all that devotion,
it had simply never been mine.
I let out a slow breath and dialed my boss.
“Mr. Gilbert, is the overseas transfer still available? I've changed my mind.”
A pause on the other end. Then, carefully：
“Isabel Lyons, are you sure about this? Once you transfer, seeing your boyfriend will be even harder.”
“I'm sure.”
“Well, if it's real love, distance and time shouldn't matter.”
I didn't correct him. I just hung up quietly.
Chester and I were already over.
